Inaction in Wanting
by radialarch
Summary: It turns out, they're all doomed to want what they can't have. / Sherlock/John, John/Mary. Post-S3. Infidelity.


**Title**: Inaction in Wanting  
**Pairing**: John/Sherlock, John/Mary  
**Rating**: M  
**Warnings**: infidelity  
**Spoilers**: takes place loosely after S3.  
**Wordcount**: 1998  
**Summary**: It turns out, they're all doomed to want what they can't have.

**A/N**: Written for sjames_centre in the summer '14 Holmestice.

* * *

Married life is strangely unsettling. Nothing goes wrong; and maybe that's the problem, that in the back of John's head he's always anticipating some kind of explosion, an urgent text without any context that leaves worry fizzing down his hands.

"Why don't you just go visit him?" Mary says when she finds him checking his phone over dinner once again. "Isn't that easier?"

"Look, it's fine," he protests. "I don't need Sherlock in my life, honestly."

She hides a smile — badly — behind her napkin. "No, of course not," she says, indulgent. "But go anyway — he's your friend."

—

Mrs H lets him into the flat with a bright smile and a cup of tea. 221B hasn't changed much — a tad messier, perhaps, and the kitchen seems in complete disarray, but the familiarity of it makes John smile.

On an impulse, he climbs the stairs to look around his old room. It has that tell-tale coldness of not having been inhabited in a while, but to his surprise there are fresh sheets on the bed and something lying in the centre — a sheaf of papers.

John frowns and picks up the top sheet. It's...music, written in Sherlock's spiky, impatient hand. He stares at the paper, but it's all incomprehensible to him — except that at the very top, Sherlock has scrawled, _for John_.

Something lurches oddly in John's chest. He looks through the other papers, looking for some sort of — explanation, _anything_, but the rest is just small black notes and unfamiliar notation.

It probably doesn't mean anything, he reasons. It shouldn't, at all, but his eyes keep coming back to the words _for John_, and his mouth is very dry.

It takes John a while to look up and realise that Sherlock is watching him from the doorway.

"What's this?" John asks.

Sherlock's face is completely white. "You had no right," he snarls, snatching the compositions from John's hand.

"It's my room!"

"You moved out," Sherlock shouts. "You took your life and boxed it up and left to go live with _Mary_—"

"She's my wife!" John shouts back. "She's _carrying my child!"_

They look at each other, breathing hard. There are bright spots high on Sherlock's cheeks and he's slowly squashing the papers into an ever-shrinking mess.

In the end it's John who takes a step forward to grab Sherlock's shirtfront and yank him into a kiss.

It's not much of a kiss — there's too much teeth and Sherlock's absolutely stiff for a second before his fingers are digging painfully into John's shoulders. John tries to shift so his neck's not craned awkwardly and ends up stumbling backwards; Sherlock presses the advantage, pushing forward until the back of John's knees hit the edge of the bed and he falls heavily into the mattress.

Sherlock is on him in a moment. There's the thump of his knees hitting the floor, and then his bony elbows are digging into John's thighs as he fumbles with John's belt.

"Sherlock," John manages to say breathlessly before Sherlock frees John's aching cock from his boxers and presses his mouth to it.

"Jesus Christ," he says, from the newness of it more than anything else. Sherlock flicks his tongue against the head, almost tentatively, then his mouth is sliding up, up. There's a hint of teeth which makes John's hips jerk before Sherlock settles on a steady rhythm.

Sherlock's eyes are dark and looking up at John. When John catches his breath he realises that Sherlock's got a hand down his own trousers, and he's suddenly transfixed by the slow steady movement of Sherlock's shoulders.

John's eyes slide closed and his hands are crushing the sheets when he comes. Sherlock makes a choking noise but swallows it down, and when John opens his eyes he's climbing to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand.

"Did you—" John gestures awkwardly.

"Yes," Sherlock says, short. He looks at John like he'd like to say something else, then abruptly turns and leaves the room.

John lets himself fall back down and looks up at the familiar ceiling. There's something digging into his side; he blindly grabs for it and finds the music sheets, crumpled into a tight ball with the ink smeared badly.

"Fuck," he says.

—

John takes a longer time to get downstairs than strictly necessary, because he's a coward. When he finally gets to the living room, Sherlock's curled on the sofa, his back toward the room.

"Sherlock," he starts, licking his lips.

"No, let me guess," Sherlock says without moving. "It was a mistake — you still love Mary and it's not going to happen again — we should forget anything happened and move on — you hope it won't affect our friendship. There, have I missed anything?"

John takes a step towards Sherlock and stops. Opens his mouth. "Look, we should at least talk—"

"Talk about it?" Sherlock makes a noise of derision. "Really, John, at least try to be original."

John looks at Sherlock's form, at a loss for words, but Sherlock's perfectly still. On a desperate impulse, he reaches out to touch the angle of Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock flinches like he's been shocked. He swivels up to make eye-contact, and his mouth is furious. "Leave," he says.

"Sorry?"

"Leave the flat, now," he repeats, each word low and precise. "Surely that's not a new concept. You've done it before."

"Okay, that's not fair—"

Sherlock hurls the remote at him. It glances off his shoulder.

"Sherlock—"

A Rubik's cube. That one hits him solidly in the chest and breaks into a shower of smaller cubes.

John leaves while Sherlock's eyeing his violin, teeth clenched tight and his hand shaking.

—

Sherlock responds to all of John's texts with just a _Go away_, which might almost be funny if it weren't so frustrating.

"Did something happen?" Mary asks.

He looks at her and thinks about coming into Sherlock's mouth and says, "No, not at all."

—

He gives up texting and tries to forget everything. But it's hard when he's lying in bed with Mary next to him and all he can think of is Sherlock's hand on his thigh, the red of his mouth around his cock.

—

"You've been so—" Mary's looking at him, head tilted curiously. "I don't know, _off_ since you've got back from Sherlock's."

"What do you mean, 'off'?" he says, and his heartbeat's much too fast. "I told you, we just had a bit of a talk. Nothing happened."

"Huh." She says. She reaches down to pluck a loose thread off her sleeve. "Well, are you going to see him again?"

"No." That comes out harder and quicker than he means, and he winces. "I don't think so. He's...busy."

Mary looks at him, and John lets out a sigh when she finally nods. "All right," she says, with a sudden bright smile. "We should talk about a nursery for the baby."

—

John's building up a steady practice at the surgery. He cycles to work and it's almost the same as running frantically around badly-lit London streets — better, even. He kisses Mary "good morning" most days and goes with her to pick out bright colourful clothing almost as small as his hand.

So it scares him, how vividly he can remember the warmth of Sherlock's hand on his thigh.

—

When the text comes, it's from Greg, and it just says _univ college a&e_.

—

Greg's in a plastic chair with his head in his hands, but he looks up when he sees John bursts through the hospital lobby doors.

"What happened," John says frantically.

"Decided to chase someone, no back-up," Greg sighs, his face grey. "Ended up with both of them in the Thames. Hell of a job to fish 'em out."

"Christ," John spits out. "Where is he?"

Greg gestures upwards. "Room 204," he says. "Hasn't woken up yet, but you could probably sit in for a bit."

"Yeah," John nods, his attention already wandering away from Greg to focus sharply above him. "Think I might."

"John," Greg says quietly before John can hurry towards the lifts, like he's not sure he wants to say anything. "What's been going on between you and—"

"Nothing," he snaps. "Nothing at all."

Greg looks like he's weighing his words. "Yeah, okay," he says finally, looking very tired. "I've gotta go, file a report on this. Take care, John."

—

Sherlock looks much too pale under the white fluorescent lights. There's a bandage on his forehead and another covering most of his right forearm, the IV drip awkwardly poking out between strips of gauze.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John mutters reflexively. He pulls up a chair by the bed and takes Sherlock's free hand in his own. "You idiot."

His eyes feel hot and he swallows, hard, because this isn't how things are supposed to end.

Before, John had thought that he and Sherlock and London, they would've stayed that way forever, stretching far into the future. He realises with a sharp breath that even after everything that had happened, he'd never really let go of the image.

And now, John's not sure of anything except that he wants —needs — Sherlock to stay in his life.

He bows his head, raises their tangled hands to press Sherlock's fingers against his forehead. He stays like that for a long time, until there's a tap at the window.

It's Mary.

—

"What are you doing here?" he hisses in the corridor.

"You called me," she lifts her mobile. There's something hard in her eyes.

"Right," John says. He doesn't remember that, but then again, he doesn't remember much of anything that's happened since Greg's text.

"Something did happen between you," she says, her tone sharper than he ever could've imagined. "Don't lie to me, John."

He looks at her, stunned. "What—"

"I can see the way you're looking at him." She lets out a humorless laugh. "I think some women might give up an arm and leg to have their husband look at them that way."

John doesn't mean to say, "Yes."

"Yeah." Mary nods bitterly. "I should've known, I suppose — he was always the centre of your life."

"That's not fair," John starts hotly. "I love you — hell, I married you, we're having a child—"

"She's not." Mary's looking away, far away. "Yours, I mean."

It takes John a moment to process that. "Excuse me?"

"She's David's," Mary says slowly. "It was before you asked me. To marry you."

"What—" There's a dull roar in John's ear. "I—" He looks sideways and catches a glimpse of Sherlock, remembers what they were arguing about. "I don't understand, how can you talk about Sherlock when—"

"Because I didn't love him, John," Mary says, perfectly clear. "I knew who I loved when I married you."

And that's a shock, because it's the first time he's thought that he might love Sherlock but it falls into place like it's true, like it's always been true.

"I'm going home," she says tiredly. "You...do what you want."

—

John can hear Mary's footsteps behind him, leaving. He stands with his feet together and his mind is whirling — he's not sure what the heaviness in his chest means, whether he should look back and follow Mary or stay here, looking numbly through the window.

Inside the room, Sherlock's chest gives a great heave, and then Sherlock's spluttering, his head coming up. His eyes flutter open and he looks sideways, right at John.

John makes a move towards the door, but Sherlock shakes his head. He freezes with a hand on the doorknob, his mouth open and looking helplessly at Sherlock.

Sherlock deliberately turns, so his spine is facing toward the window. John bites his lip, thinks about going back in anyway — but he can't make himself, not when every line of Sherlock's body is stiff and unwelcoming.

—

It's grey and wet when John walks out of the hospital. He looks around, his hands in his pockets, and wonders if he has anywhere left to go.


End file.
